The Faded Chronicle
The ink is gone. You look at the page. It is white. It is clean. It is empty. You hold it up to the light. There are no words. There is no record. There is no history. You are in the office. The light is gray. The dust motes dance in the shafts. They are slow. They are dead. You are a clerk. You are small. You are invisible. Your name is Thomas. You are not important. The desk is heavy. It is...
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